Infernal Heaven
by Ophale
Summary: Dean is back from Heaven, where he saw Sam's memories. He has never felt more betrayed before. Dean-centric. It's not Sam-bashing, but not really friendly either. Dean's just hurt.


Hey ! How are you guys ? So, I'm back with another translation of my French work "Paradis Infernal".

I need to remind you that english in not my first language, thus I apologize for the mistakes you'll likely found. If any of you want to be my beta for this work, don't hesitate to PM me, I would gladly accept.

And now, enjoy your reading !

* * *

 **Infernal Heaven**

The night was swloly falling over the city, wrapping its ebony coat around the poor wretchs meandering in the cobbled streets. The moon reared its head, shaping a pale and silvered halo on the trees, not unlike a astral shawl. The night birds practised a discordant symphonic hymn, disturbing by so the cats of the neighbourhood which were yowling in protest. A light breeze raised the dead leaves in a graceful whirlwind, before putting them down slowly, tenderly, like saying good-bye to an old friend.

The silence of the night was broken only by the sound of heavy steps, loaded with emotions. A muffled silhouette emerged from the shadows of the street. A pair of boots slammed against the floor at a quasi-military speed. Soon the figure came out fully from the shadows ; two feet tied to two strong legs, themselves the following of a delicately muscled torso, to which was assembled two athletic, robusts arms whose hands ended the run in the pocket of the vest the man was wearing. A head covered with dark-blond hair crown a welcoming neck. The man's thin and chiselled face could be seen through the night's mist ; it was spangled with little and aerial freckles. And in the middle of this bewitching beauty was a pait of yeux like you've never seen.

Nevertheless, his whole being exuded sadness, anger, disappointment and above all, betrayal. He walked, head down, without looking where his steps were leading him. His sagged shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world. His all body bend over, overwhelmed by exhaustion. His eyes were underlined by dark bags of tiredness and his white as a sheet complexion gave him a striking likeness with a juts deceased man.

His hands passed over his face to try to wash a part of the fatigue that overburden him and to wipe a few treacherous tears that escaped him as well.

The name of this worn out man : Dean Winchester.

Dean Winchester was not a man like others. At the age of four, his mother was murdered in his little brother's room. She was disemboweled and her body burnt on the ceiling. Admitelly, he didn't actually see his mother die, but there were a certain amount of things he would never forget. The scream she emited before she died, the heat of the flammes licking his skin, the scent of scorched flesh spreading across the house.

Until today, these memories continued to haunt his nightmares.

At four years old, he began the life on the road. At four, he learnt to take care of his baby brother, then six months old. At four, he met Bobby Singer, hunter by profession. At five, he saw his first monster : the vengeful spirit of a little girld about ten or so, drowned by her own father. At six, he started to assimilate the fundamental of hunting. At the age of seven, he changed Sam's nappies. At eight, he was initiated into shooting on glass bottles. At nine, he burnt his first skeleton. At ten, he went with Sammy at the Parents Days at school, instead of their father. At eleven, Dean spent his first night at the hospital. At twelve, he undestood that the worst monsters were not the vampires, neither the ghost or any others creatures of the dark, but the social services. At thirteen, he killed an innocent for the first time. At fourteen, he drank his first beer. At fifteen, he had sex for the first time. At sixteen, he played mediator between John and Sam. At seventeen, he undestood that having friends was pointless, except for ending their life sooner. At eighteen, he disobeyed hir father for the first time. At nineteen, he dive his misery and his sadness into alcohol. For his twentieth birthday, he acquired Baby. At twenty-one, he hunt alone for the first time. At twenty-two, he watched, powerless, his little brother, Sammy, leaving.

This day his heart cracked.

Dean Winchester was one of a kind. You won't find nobody more altruist and loyal than him. Dean was ready to do everything, absolutely everything, for the people he loved. He was ready to sacrifice his own life, he was ready to spend forty years in Hell if it meant saving the ones closed to his heart. To have a place in the walled heart of the hunter, was to insure yourself an limitless loyalty. No matter your problem, Dean will do everything in his power to solve it. On the contrary, rub him up the wrong way, and you could be certain to end your life close to the center of the Earth. However, Dean showed a nearly pathalogicla distrust towards the rest of the world. You earned Dean's trust with acts and not with words.

Add to this, Dean was a genius. He was often compard to his brother on the intelectual level. A lot of people considered (and still do) that Sam was the brain and Dean the muscles. This statement couldn't have been any wronger.

Dean was smart, very smart.

It was a cleverness different from his brother's. So, certaintly, he couldn't tell you what was the capital city of the Sri Lanka (Sri Jayawardenapura), neither recite all the synonyms of the verb "to shine", neither less solve an equation with three unknowns. As for understanding the humans emotions, not a chance. On the other hand, he just needed one cirular look in a room to draw up a list of the persons potentially dangerous, distinguish all the exits and set up a list of all possible weapons he (or his enemies) could use.

Dean's brain was at full capacity in perilous situations. That what made him so redoubtable. He was able to find a solution in a record time.

That what he was trained for.

He still remembered when his father had taken him in the middle of the night (and, yes, he was asleep) into a shut down warehouse as big as a football stadium, arranged like a labyrinth. When he had woken up, he had found a note saying all in all : _"You have to get out of here. Figure it out."_ It has taken him no less than six hours before he managed to find the exit.

Another time, John had burried him alive in a coffin in order to teach him how to get out of it. Fortunately, the coffin had been relatively close to the surface. John had kept doing it unti he was satisfied with his son's time.

Dean still had nightmares.

Moreover, he may not devoured every single book he could get his hands on, unlike Sam, but it didn't mean he was uncultivated. He read too, but only what he found interesting. Sam could read a toaster's instructions and he would found it fascinating. It was not like Dean didn't like reading – he _liked_ reading – but after their mother's death, the only books John made Dean read related directly or indirecly to the monsters they're hunting. Not really the kind of reading a five-year-old should have in his hands. Which is why he always managed to buy, found (sometimes steal – being a hunter was not really well-paid) the books Sam needed, no matter if he get tired of them, or if he never read them again. The impious hours of the night occasionally caught him reading a book Sam had finished. Dean was always extremely careful not to be seen. If his father discovered that him, Dean, the soldier son, was reading _Alice in Wonderlands_ (don't laugh, this book lookked like it was written under the influence of drugs. Dean loved it.) he would be hauled over the coals. John could barely stand _one_ son who spend his life in his books, so if his other son started to do the same, it wouldn't be a pretty sight.

So, yes, Dean Winchester was bright, and when his foes realised it, it was usually too late.

Dean liked to prank, he swore only by rock classic music. He worshiped pies, and to a lesser extent, burgers. His only stable relationship was with Baby, his '67 Chevrolet Impala. Furthermore, his sarcastic character often incured the wrath of the people he met.

This was Dean Winchester.

But, right now, Dean Winchester was just a shadow of his former self.

Dean had just come back from a trip into Heaven, and his stay had almost been as painful as the one in Hell. A different kind of pain, but a pain nevertheless. See, Heaven is not a defined place like we think it is. In fact, Heaven is the whole of billions and billions heavens, each to his own. And your heaven is composed by yours best memories. In _his_ heaven, Dean got reunited with the memories of his brother and his mother. To him, his brother was everything ; he was his world. His very existence had for goal to protect Sammy. So when he saw that Sammy's best recollections were about strangers, people he didn't know, he snapped.

His already crackled heart, shattered.

Even after his depart for Stanford, Dean has never felt so betrayed. Whan Sam left, years ago, Dean understood, and, secretly, he supported him. Sam wanted to study, he didn't whant to be a hunter. Dean had known it since his little brother was ten. He understood – he hadn't wanted to be a hunter either, he still didn't want it – but unlike Sam, Dean didn't know anything else. And if it hadn't been for Sammy, he would have went far away from their father. Execpt that the young man didn't just left John behind, he also left his big brother. At the time, Dean thought that Sam would call him once there, he truly thought Sam would kept in touch with him. But he didn't. His little brother hadn't reach him ; no messages, no calls, no lettres. Days passed, then weeks, then months.

And Dean had understand.

Sam was not only parting away from his father, he was driving away from him. He didn't want to have anything to do with him. So, Dean hadn't insisted.

Sam wanted a normal life.

Dean was not normal.

* * *

The eldest of the Winchester's brother notified a bench a few meters from him, and he headed forward with slowness. He let himself drop on worm-eaten wood. His crazed expression wandered on the trees which enlivened nicely the park he was staying in. He absent-mindedly remarked he was the only one daring enough to brave the freezing wind of december. He was so disoriented that he couldn't have told in which city he was. The only thing he knew, was that it was cold, and this weather was ideal to anesthetize his whirlingthis emotions.

Steam escaped from his mouth while he sighed. He took his head in his hands and tried to supress the sobbs ravaging his body. Dean had never felt this betrayed, this devastated before. Not even when his mom had died, not when Sam had left the first time, not even when his father had died too, sacrificing himself for him. The only other time he felt such a pain was when Sam had been stabbed by Jake the Psycho. And he ended up selling his soul to save his brother. Yet, this time there was nothing to rescue, Sam was not dying, but may be, Dean, him, was.

The young hunter felt out of his depth. Overwhelmed by his emotions ; by sadness, by anger, by abandonnement, and resignation. He always knew that Sam and John would never really get along, so that Sam didn't have any good memories with their father was not frankly surprising. But he always thought that even if their childhood hadn't been perfect, he did a good job with Sam. He always thought their time spent together were worth all the ones spent in the dark, in fear and pain. They had such good moments together, jus the two of them. No matter how old they were, Dean always let Sam know he could count on him, for everything and anything. He truly thought, believed, _hoped_ he had succeded to give Sam a childhood worthy of the name.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Dean passed a hand on his face to dry his tears. He still heard his father's voice resonated in his mind : _"Look out for Sammy. It is your job."_ Thinking about his father, made a bitter smile erupt on his face. John would be so disappointed if he was him in such a state for some memories. He would be ashamed. And he would be right. He was pitiful. Time to pull himself together.

His look harden, and Dean stood up quickly. He get away from the park without looking behind him.

 _Look out for Sammy._

His steps gained confidence as and when he moved forward.

 _It is your job._

He took the feelings swirling in him and shoved them behind the wall of indifference and nonchalance circling his heart.

He had a job to do.


End file.
